


Excavating Antarctica

by Random_WordBender



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (because apparently I also need to work some sh!t out), (in case anyone other than Steve Rogers still gets offended by that sort of thing), After all brainy is the new sexy, And men in three-piece suits, And probably some detective work, Cupid!Sherlock, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Help, I've been abducted by another story, Language!, Mycroft Feels, Oh yes also Mind Palace, Right?, Sex, What even am I writing?, to the rescue, with umbrellas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_WordBender/pseuds/Random_WordBender
Summary: After the events at Sherrinford, the Baker Street Boys (loosely including a recalcitrant Mycroft) have rebuilt their home, and gained a certain level of equilibrium.But Sherlock has noticed a disturbing trend in his brother's behaviour, and believes he knows exactly what to do about it.---Brigit Foster is a regular woman, with a meek disposition and a core of titanium. Is she strong enough to fit into Sherlock's plan?[Gifted to SaturnineFeline. I tried working on the other one, and this happened. I hope it will suffice. X-D ]





	1. Fissures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> How in the seven hells did I end up on this ship? Does this even count as a ship? I mean...The Elder Holmes/OFC is some sort of flotation device isn't it?  
> I can't believe I got hijacked by a story. AGAIN!  
> *curls into foetal position in the corner*
> 
> OK, serious notes:  
> 1\. I have tagged Depression, as I will be exploring what it feels like from the inside looking out. Apparently I need to work through some personal issues, so I'll be writing my own first-hand experience into this. If you are triggered, or feel that you may not be comfortable with your own mental health issue being dragged into stark light, then give this one a skip. It will get psychologically dark. So be warned.  
> Also if you are suffering any of these symptoms, do look for someone to talk to. You are not alone, and you do matter.
> 
> 2\. I'm trying, where possible to incorporate Sherlock's Mind Palace into the main body of text, to imitate the fluidity found in the actual series. If my formatting skills are not up to snuff, please let me know in the comments below, and I'll edit it accordingly.
> 
> 3\. I have literally no idea how long this will be. The scenes keep popping into my head.
> 
> And as always, disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the associated characters, with the exception of the original female character, who is entirely my own. This is a work of fanfiction for enjoyment purposes only.

** Chapter 1: Fissures **

 

Sherlock didn’t like loose threads. They marred the tapestry of life, with their flagrant disregard for the bigger picture; flailing about like landed fish, as their more orderly brethren strove to make a cohesive and functional whole.

In general, his need for order and structure would blanket the realms of the logical, the rational, the _solvable_. But every so often, he would find his need breaching the writhing morass known as the Human Condition.

A lesser man in this position might be described as a _Romantic_ , but Sherlock – always the first to point out that he was anything other than “lesser” – would deny such an adjective outright.

No. Far from “romantic”, the place he found his mind exploring at this point in time was a conundrum of chemistry, psychology, and – for want of a better word – loyalty.

It was simple, really.

  1. His elder brother was starting to show cracks in his inhuman façade, with fleeting glimpses of loneliness and _feeling_.
  2. His elder brother cared for him more than he let on, thus fraternal loyalty dictated that Sherlock return the feeling in equal measure.
  3. A Happy Mycroft was less likely to meddle with Sherlock’s affairs, and – given time – may even cease antagonising him at every turn.



_Scratch that last_ , his eyebrows furrowed imperceptibly, _Mycroft will never give up his favourite game._

********** “Sherlock?”

He ignored the distant buzz ( _John?_ ) and impaled his bulleted list to the corkboard before him with a small pen-knife. Taking a step back, he scanned the other items similarly affixed to the board. Vital signs - _That word -_  Dietary habits -  _That word has a loose thread on it -_  Likely causes of death - “ _Game” -_  All the information on this board condensed into a single fact: that he did care about Mycroft – at least as far as a sociopath was capable of caring - “ _Gaaammmee”._  
  
********* ”I’m so sorry, Miss. He-“

More buzzing ( _definitely John_ ).  His fingers flexed slightly in irritation. _Not important right now_. Because, really, the question was: why was his mind even tugging at this thread? The list formed a floating extrapolation of another item in this room. He followed the connection. A 5-foot tall facsimile of Hasbro’s “Operation” stood against the North wall of the room. Had it always been this big? He was certain he’d made it smaller. But then again, his Mind Palace had undergone several reconstructions, upheavals, and restorations. Ever since Eurus - _Not now!_ He shook his head and inspected the point where the thread connected.

******** ”- Foster. I quite unders-“

Not buzzing, more lyrical. Like a mild breeze. Feminine. ( _not John. Client?_ ) _Still not important._ Touching the plastic heart in the painted man’s chest brought a small sound-bite of a conversation he’d had with Mycroft nearly two years ago.  
                                _“ – not lonely, Sherlock.” Scoffing.  
                                “How would you know?”   
__A flash of – insecurity? pain? – in widened eyes._

A loose thread. He strode to the centre of the room, scanning its contents as he rotated in a slow circle.

Here, on a small table, a cut-crystal tumbler of scotch - _a rare moment of exhaustion, hidden from the prying eyes of the world._  
  
******* “ – tea, dear? I have a fresh batch of bis-“  
  
( _do be quiet Mrs Hudson_ ) Here, on a decorative mirror, “Iceman” written in a violent shade of red lipstick – _imperceptible stiffening of the lower jaw, the good old “stiff upper lip”, hiding pain._

****** “ – actually here about on old – “

Here, a black and white film on a projector – _John swore he saw him curled up in an armchair_ smiling _in the dark, the night they’d forced a confession from him_.

***** “ – think, Mr. Holmes?”

Here, a notebook with a single business card peeking from the cover – _he’d been twirling it in his fingers, deep in thought, unaware he was being observed –_ The words “Lady Alicia Smallwood” ( _MP. Widowed. Cause for alarm?_ ) barely visible.

**** “ – no use…like this for hours”

Here, a window lets in a cold draft carrying scents of his often-empty house – _cold, dark, the memorial stone of a family_. A sudden flash of blue-green eyes; there and gone - like a foreign frame spliced into a film reel.

*** “ – didn’t think it was important. But now – “

All of these were loose threads surrounding a small but obvious hole. Albeit threads on a tapestry he neither needed nor cared to investigate very often. So why now? Perhaps the events with their sister? He’d found himself defending Mycroft against their parents after that – a definite break from character – so their fraternal relationship had clearly evolved.  
  
** “ _Sherlock._ ”

He cared, and he knew Mycroft cared. They’d been through hell at Sherrinford. Together. But what, specifically, today had triggered it? He’d been exploring a different area of his Mind Palace, when he’d suddenly been transported to the room labelled “Mycroft”. _Something outside my head,_ he mused, as he left the room and locked the door, hurrying to the exit.

* “ _Sherlock!!”_

 _Yes, yes. I’m coming! Just let me -_  
\---  
On a sharp inhale of breath he re-entered the real world, blinking as he adjusted to the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the windows. John swam into focus across from him, leaning forward slightly, his face an etching of alarm and solemnity.  
  
“Yes, John, what is it?” he snapped. An idiot could tell something was wrong, but he needed his friend more level-headed. Anger was far more helpful than fear. John’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he sat back and curtly waved a hand toward the third chair.

“Client.” He all but barked, before grabbing his teacup and taking a large gulp. Sherlock’s eyes slid to his left as the indicated chair creaked.  
  
“Indeed” he murmured as the room’s third occupant rose gracefully and extended a hand. Automatically his right hand rose to grasp it in a firm but gentle handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you Mr Holmes, I am –

_{Early 30s. Paper-pusher  – librarian? No. Researcher. Mildly near-sighted. Prefers books and cats to the company of people. Middle-class upbringing. Received pronunciation with the lightest hint of Welsh – West? South? Unimportant. Not vain, but aware enough to make an effort. No siblings. A few friendly acquaintances – likely colleagues. Ex-colleagues. Recently let go, no new job yet. Nervous disposition, possibly more. Parents both deceased. Single. Small flat. One cat. Nurturer, but no children. Blue-green eyes. Light brown hair. Petite but shapely, graceful frame – **why am I noticing this**?}_

                                                - Brigit Foster. I was just explaining to Dr. Watson that I – “

“That you have information regarding an old case of ours. You didn’t think it was important, but then you saw the news about an odd occurrence at an abandoned manor house, which triggered a memory of perhaps sinister nature. A memory of your previous employer, one James Moriarty, whom you knew as…” He raised a brow inquiringly, letting his voice trail off.

“Uh…I… Robert Banks…but - ” she blinked, sinking back into her seat as her mind finally kicked into gear to keep up. Sherlock smirked and let out a humourless chuckle.

“Ever the joker, wasn’t he? ‘Robert Banks’.” He snorted “’Rob Banks’…He was practically advertising, John.” John eyed him silently, a warning in his gaze. Aware that some sort of silent communication was occurring, Brigit cleared her throat.

“As you say, I didn’t think it was important at the time. It might even be completely irrelevant now that he’s dead. But I thought you should have it.” She reached into her pocket and held up a small USB drive. Sherlock’s gaze narrowed to the object before he finally accepted it.

“So, not a client. Just a messenger.”

“So it would seem, yes. Well, gentlemen, I think I’d better be going.” As she rose once again from her seat, Sherlock experienced a rare irrational impulse. A sense that he should not let her leave yet. A gut-feeling at the centre of a small but noticeable hole, surrounded by loose threads. He sprang up from his seat, drawing a breath to stop her.  
_  
Creak._

Interrupted, his gaze fell on the front door, eyebrows drawing together.

“Do stop lurking at the door, brother mine.”


	2. Crevasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 has had a couple of format edits. No major changes though.
> 
> I am going for subtlety in this one. Not even Mycroft has realised his slip-up. Yet. ;)

**Chapter 2 – Crevasse**

“I do _not_ lurk, Sherlock!”  Mycroft winced inwardly at the petulance in his voice, cursing the grating nature of younger siblings as he swung the door fully open and strode in with as much gravitas as possible. One eyebrow raised in an expression calculated to irritate his brother, he scanned the room, gaze falling briefly on the young woman whose voice he’d heard earlier. Mentally dismissing her he turned to greet John with a nod – barely returned, he noted. _Sherlock must be out to annoy everyone today_ – before finally turning to acknowledge his brother.

“Nevertheless, I am with a client –“ Sherlock began.

“A client who was just leaving, by the looks of it.” He interrupted, waving indifferently in the general direction of the woman. Raising both brows, he fixed his brother with a pointed stare “I’m sure you can spare your own family five minutes.” _Check mate_ his expression said, and Sherlock ground his teeth.

“Ms. Foster!” he barked, breaking Mycroft’s gaze and deliberately stepping around him. “I don’t believe I have your contact details. Should we need to query any of the contents of this drive, of course.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, startling a huffed chuckle from John, as he settled into Sherlock’s vacated armchair, his ever-present umbrella held upright between his legs.

Brigit froze for a second time at the sound of her name. _And I nearly made it out the door, this time_ , she silently lamented. Spinning to face the younger Holmes she plastered on a polite smile.

“Of course. How remiss of me.” Rummaging in her pocket for her pocketbook and pencil stub, she quickly wrote her name and mobile number, carefully tearing the page out and handing it over.

“Thank you. I do apologise for my brother’s manners, and hope that you find success in your job hunt.”

What happened next on his face must have been an attempt at a smile, but there were far too many teeth and Brigit had the impression that he was attempting to appear debonair. The result was half grimace, half predatory baring of teeth, and wholly uncomfortable to witness.

“Th – Thank you? Um. Good-bye!” she backed out the door and practically ran down the stairs, leaving Sherlock staring at the empty stairwell. Absent-mindedly his fingers fiddled with the piece of paper she had given him as he parsed her hasty exit.

“If you were attempting a romantic overture, brother, you failed. Dismally.” Sherlock swung back to glare at his brother and strode over to tap John on the back, the latter having choked on a gulp of tea. Wheezing, John let out a snorted chuckle.

“Sherlock? Romantic? You’re barking up the wrong – “ he gasped

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft.” Sherlock interrupted, shooting a quelling look at John. “Of the three people in this room, I deduce that _you_ are the most likely to seek romantic attach – oh, for God’s sake, John! Stop endeavouring to breathe your tea! It’s physically impossible. Any doctor should know that.”

“Then what, may I ask, was that frankly repulsive display? You had her running faster than a mouse in a cattery.” Mycroft snorted, entirely unperturbed by John’s distress.

“An experiment.”

“Oh?”

“On human nature.” Sherlock huffed at his brother’s condescension. “It’s certainly rendering some interesting results.” he added slyly, narrowing his eyes as he turned to fully regard his sibling. Almost on reflex Mycroft’s eyelids half-sank, shuttering his gaze, his brows furrowing. A silent battle of wits ensued, punctuated by John’s gasping as he rose to get a glass of water. John was just starting to wonder how long they could keep this up, when Sherlock straightened to his full height. “Besides,” he declared triumphantly “as I said: you are statistically the most likely person in this room to find Ms. Foster even remotely attractive.”

He waited just long enough for Mycroft to draw a breath, before adding “At _this_ point in time.” A vague threat evident in his tone, deliberately pitched to bait the elder man.

 _What are you playing at, this time, Sherlock?_ His eyes widened imperceptibly as realisation dawned _Are you seriously- ?_ Mycroft jumped out of his seat, indignation etched in every line of his frame.

“If you’re going to be absurd, dear brother, then I have better things to do. John.” He nodded curtly at the gaping doctor, who had clearly just reached the same conclusion he had, before striding to the door.

“And to think: the mere implication of romance has completely diverted you from whatever drivel you felt important enough to visit me with. Good to know.” Sherlock’s hand landed on his shoulder in a deceptively fraternal gesture, forcing Mycroft to spin on his heel off-balance and nearly fall against him, stopped only by a waiting hand

“Not at all.” He recovered his balance and delivered a saccharine smile that oozed malice. “Mother and Father are coming to Town this weekend. You have been summoned to a theatre outing. You _will_ attend.” With a flourish he shook the hand from his shoulder and closed the door, cutting off whatever inane objection the younger Holmes was about to voice.

 Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut in tandem with the door latch. Of course Mycroft would leave with the upper hand. _Or so he thinks_. A small, secretive smile slowly curved his lips, as he considered the seed he’d just planted. _Who’s the Smart One now?_ Sauntering up to the window, he waited.( _John buzzing again)_

“Hm?” John pursed his lips in mild annoyance, before sinking into his seat.

“I said: I’m surprised you didn’t pick _me_ out as the most likely boyfriend material. Thanks for – for not doing that.”

“Oh. Well. Yes.” Sherlock paused. Mary was a delicate issue between them. While he was vaguely aware that John was still in mourning, he couldn’t quite fathom where his friend was in the traditional cycle of grief. Suddenly awkward, he watched his brother stiffly climb into the black sedan parked directly below the window.

“I am curious, though,” John grabbed the rolled up newspaper on the end table as he spoke “why you were trying to make him feel….well, _anything_?”

*** _A conversation held entirely in musical notation. Finally! Someone capable of communicating at my speed…_

“Just…returning a favour.”

*

Unaware of his brother’s gaze, Mycroft fumed. The audacity! Thinking that he needed his little brother bungling through his personal affairs! He snorted.

 _Sentiment is weakness_ , he repeated his mantra. _Maybe I should dig up some spectacular cases to keep him occupied. Open some of the MI6 files for him. Because my brother must be terminally bored if he thinks I need a female with pretty eyes cluttering up my life._ Nodding to himself, he dragged his mobile from his inside pocket. Or tried to.

Slightly alarmed, he patted himself down, rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time since arriving at 221b Baker Street, as he found his phone in one of his outside pockets.

“Really, Sherlock, this is becoming tiresome!” he muttered to himself but stilled as his hand brushed a slip of paper. Taking it out, he glanced at the name printed in a neat hand, right above a hasty tear-line. “Entirely too tiresome!” he growled, crumpling the paper and dropping it back in his pocket before making some clearly _very necessary_ calls.

*

Many hours and five miles away, Brigit tried to sleep. It was well past midnight, but she refused to look at her clock again to find out how much. The meeting at Baker Street had gone almost as expected, and yet…not.

_He knew I was looking for a job. How?_

_He’s a certifiable genius, who makes a living observing things. He probably knows your entire life story from the way you wear your hair, silly!_

She pummelled her pillow, trying for a shape more conducive to sleep.

_At least Watson seemed sweet. Must be a full-time job running after Holmes._

_Yes, probably, now shu-_

_And the Other One…was taller than expected._ She shivered slightly, firmly turning away from that train of thought.

_Probably. Not important. Sleep importa-_

Against all reason she did fall asleep, the image of long fingers, curled firmly around the chestnut handle of an umbrella, emblazoned on the backs of her eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I wasn't clear: Yes, Sherlock totally picked Mycroft's pocket, and then replaced his phone in another pocket.


	3. Notos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! So I've managed to jump back on this horse. Let's see if I can get it to canter.
> 
> 1\. Chapter 2 is now an actual chapter, and not a PSA. So if you haven't read it, go back.
> 
> 2\. Here we start dipping toes into the depressive mind-set. I've tried not to make this too heavy, though be warned: it will get much, much darker later on. Also, while John worked through his grief in S04 E03, experience tells me that there would be many more outbursts before he gained normalcy. 
> 
> 3\. For those interested: Notos is the South Wind. Generally a hot, dry wind that brings black storms and dangerous seas. 
> 
> 4\. A couple of tag updates. Because I think cupid!Sherlock is a wonderful paradox.

**Chapter 3 – Notos**

Faint pounding behind eyes. Birds singing loudly outside the window. A slant of watery sunlight glancing sharply off a cheekbone. Fangs digging into nostrils.

“Urrrrrarrrrgh-ouch! Geoff, stop! I’m up, I promise!” Groaning, Brigit rolled onto her back. The beginnings of a headache informing her that she’d slept well into the morning again. A flash of orange at the foot of her bed marked her tom cat’s exit. Rubbing her eyes to remove the crusts, she sat up and blearily glanced at the clock. _11:57_.

_Brilliant. Another day wasted._

_There’s still twelve more hours, I can at least get a load of washing done._

_No. You’re going to switch on that computer and binge-watch Youtube videos for the rest of the day. You always do._

_Not_ always _! I –_

A loud imperious meow from the kitchenette halted the inner tirade.

She wondered, sometimes, at what point the other voice had started sounding like her mother. Groaning again, she dragged herself upright and slouched to the kitchen. Geoff had unscrewed the lid of the kibble container and was sedately fishing pellets out one at a time, delicately nibbling them from his paw.

 “Well I see you don’t need me for anything.” She chuckled half-heartedly, offering a scratch behind his ears. Bending down, she grabbed his bowl off the floor and scooped a cupful of pellets out for him. Immediately he jumped down from the counter, stretching his entire body one quarter at a time, as though preparing for a marathon. “I suppose it is nicer when someone else prepares your food for you, though.”

_How would you know? No-one ever cooks for you._

_They do at restaurants,_ she rebutted. Her headache was getting worse, tension building in her neck and yanking at her brain. Blindly, she rummaged through the mountain of dishes for a marginally clean glass and fished in a drawer for headache tablets.

_Serves you right for sleeping so late. Useless, you are. As always. Can’t even keep a mindless office job. You’d rather hide in this flat, and weld your brain to the internet._

Ignoring the voice she glanced down at herself, briefly considering getting out of her sleeping pants and tank top.

_Why bother? It’s not like you have anywhere to go._

She considered washing some of the dishes.

 _The newspaper should be here by now_ , she glanced at the door, sipping her water.

 _Did I shower last night?_ A glance back down at herself.

 _Who cares?_  

And that was all it took. On auto-pilot she switched on the kettle and took down her last clean mug, dumping teabag, sugar, and milk all together without thought. Five steps across the tiny living room to her corner “office” to wake her sleeping PC. Ten more steps to pour the boiled water and settle back at her desk. Two seconds to pull up all of her bookmarked pages. Shortly after, Geoff completed his breakfast and commandeered her lap, purring like a steam engine.

At some basic level, she knew that she needed to shower, needed to take care of herself and dress for the day, needed to do the dishes and sweep the floor and put a load of washing on, needed to grab the paper and trawl through the classifieds for a new job.

On a more logical level, she even knew that giving up on all of these things because she’d overslept was just plain silly; that the day was not entirely lost.

What she lacked was the will to care.

As she ran through the entire “Cats Are Jerks” playlist, and the “What happened next…” clickbait, her mind drifted. She was fairly certain she hadn’t always been like this. She’d had hope and a shiny idealistic view of how life would be when she finally got out of her mother’s house. In fact, most days she wasn’t like this at all.

But inevitably, there was always a trigger. A failure that would remind her what a useless and unwanted lump she was. It didn’t even have to be something big.

_{A pair of glacial eyes measuring her and finding her wanting in a split-second. An authoritative voice dismissively speaking over her head as though she weren’t there.}_

  _It’s not as though you had a chance with_ That One, _anyway. Not like you even like him. Why even worry?_ She tried reasoning with herself. But using reason against the dark cloud within was like throwing a bucket of water at a desert.

Switching to a fan-fiction site, she settled for living vicariously.

 _Because no real man wants you for You. Rather stick to cats and fiction. Better to be alone. Because no-one wants you anyway._ As if he could hear her thoughts, Geoff stretched out a paw, gently sinking his claws into her thigh. Glancing down, she dredged up half a smile and stroked his back. _No-one except Geoff. At least he doesn’t care what you look like, or how you act._

As an unconscious act of rebellion, she scanned the posted works until she found a hero with a penchant for three-piece suits, impeccable manners, and glacial blue eyes.

 

*

“So let me get this straight” John paused, ordering his thoughts “You’re basically trying to destabilise the British government, because - and I paraphrase - ‘Mycroft gave you someone to talk to.’ Have I got it about right?”

“I’m not trying to ‘destabilise the British government’, John. I’m trying to help him.” Sherlock blew an exasperated breath at the ceiling and steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Oh do close your mouth.” He snapped after a couple of seconds. “Your impression of a goldfish is not endearing.”

“How is mucking about with your brother’s love life considered helping?!” incredulity lent a sharp tone “Your brother, Sherlock.” A hand waved vaguely in Sherlock’s peripheral vision “Mycroft Holmes. The man who incarcerated his own sister, while pretending she’d died; who sends his brother on the sort of missions that inevitably end either in torture or death; who offers your friends money – money! for Christ’s sake – to spy on your movements. The man who essentially runs most of the Western world…and you think he needs a _girlfriend_?”

“Yes, John. Do keep up. Though, probably ‘girlfriend’ is too pedestrian a term.”

“And you think that Brigit Foster – a woman you spoke to for no more than ten minutes, and who also happens to have worked for your most dangerous enemy, before he blew his own brains out – is the perfect match for him?” Sherlock turned to regard his friend, eyebrow raised. John was still gaping, his face a picture of bemusement, as he rapidly blinked.

“Problem?”

Springing up from his seat, John paced -a sure sign that he was about to enter a rant. Sherlock sighed and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“Did you for one second, ever think that _she_ might not be interested in _him_? Or that she might be in a relationship? Or – I don’t know – lesbian?!” Coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the rug, he spun and gesticulated wildly, voice rising “Does it ever occur to you, that playing matchmaker involves more than one person, and that you stand the risk of actually _harming_ the people you manipulate? I mean, what on _Earth_ has that poor girl done to you, that you want to…to parcel her with a pretty bow, for your brother? Like a bloody _toy_!”

Head whipping round, Sherlock finally sat up, completely perplexed. The morning had been going so well, after all: a new experiment involving post-mortem arachnid bites had been giving fascinating results, his website on the art of deduction had garnered a few more hits…and then his best friend had stopped by and re-opened the enquiry on his latest Game. ( _Maybe ‘game’ is too impersonal a word?_ ) He’d known John would have something to say about the whole matter, but this reaction was beyond expectation. 

“The more important question right now is: why does this concept offend you so deeply?”

“Because, after all these years, you _still_ haven’t figured out that people are not _things_!” Even as his temper exploded, John knew that that wasn’t the whole of it.  This was – “This is Janine all over again, Sherlock! This is your sister playing with Molly’s life! And for what? An emotion that you bloody Holmes’ don’t seem to comprehend!” His words echoed into the following silence. 

Needing release he spun and slammed his fist into the wall before stomping into the kitchen in search of a drink. Hesitantly, Sherlock followed. Reaching the kitchen door just as John wrenched the fridge open, he braced himself for the expected explosion.

“AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET A SEPARATE REFRIDGERATOR FOR BODY PARTS!!” The fridge door slammed. This was more than just righteous indignation, he realised. This was _personal_. A light bulb clicked on.

“She –“ John’s head shot up, eyes ablaze with warning, but Sherlock plunged on. “She wasn’t a _thing_ , to me, John. I valued her mind, and I valued her place in your life.”

“’Value’” a hoarse growl “We ‘value’ _things_ , Sherlock.”

“Please.” He entreated, swallowing. “I’m a sociopath. You know this. That means that I don’t connect with…ordinary people. Not the way you do with each other. But I did appreciate her place in this world. And I do miss her presence. If I had known – If – If I had any chance to do so, I would have stopped her. But not even _my_ reflexes were as fast as hers.”

An intangible weight settled over the room, a tableau of grief and pain painted in grey. Finally, John took a deep breath, hand coming up to wearily to rub his eyes. The hint of a tear disappeared beneath his thumb. “I know, Sherlock.” He rasped. “I’m sorry. I just – “

“You’re still grieving. It’s understandable. And I’m here to help you through it, as much as I’m able” Taking a few steps, he raised a hand to his friend’s shoulder, somewhat unsure how to proceed. “You’re not wrong, you know.”

John glanced up, lips pursed and eyebrows raised in inquiry. Without a word he started back to the living room, Sherlock following.

“What I did to Janine was…mercenary, I’ll admit. Though, I have to hand it to her: she came back swinging.” He smiled fondly, but catching John’s eye he continued “What Eurus did to Molly – and to me…well. I’m not completely without feeling, you know. It hurt. And I suspect that it hurt Molly one hundred times more. But Mycroft…” he paused, gaze drifting off to another time, when life had been simple and all he wanted to be was a pirate.

“Mycroft what?” John prodded. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he met his friend’s gaze.

“Mycroft is not without hope. Of the three of us, he is the most capable of feeling the normal range of human emotion.”

“Mycroft?” his friend scoffed half-heartedly “I’d say he’s the worst of the lot!”

“And yet,” he shot John an arch look, effectively silencing him “of the three of us ‘bloody Holmes’’, as you put it, he is the only one incapable of committing cold-blooded murder.” 

“Great!” John threw his hands up in the air “So he’s not a murderer. Let’s bring out the gold medal for best potential boyfriend alive.”

“Don’t be fooled by the unshakeable façade he presents, John. Because that’s all it is: a façade. Mycroft cares a great deal about people. Cares so deeply, that he gave his entire life to the efficacious management of his country.”

“Riiiight. Because _that_ doesn’t have ‘megalomaniac’ written all over it.” Despite his words, John’s tone was decidedly less inflammatory, as he started to think.

“Megalomania – or more correctly, Narcissism – requires recognition and accolades from others. Until you met him, you had no idea he existed, let alone the extent of his work. Very few people do. And, to be perfectly frank, his façade is cracking. He's lonely, John.”

“Fine, fine.” With a heaving sigh, he finally conceded defeat. “So now that we’ve established that under the ten-foot sheet of ice, Mycroft is actually a cuddly bundle of love and devotion – “

“Good God, we don’t need to go _that_ far!” Sherlock chuckled

“It’s called sarcasm.” He shot back “Anyway, now that we’ve examined _him_. What about _her?_ Where did you get the bright idea – in-between ignoring her for half an hour, reading her entire life-story from her cardigan, extracting her mobile number, and creeping the living bejeezus out of her – where, in all of that, did you decide that she was a perfect match for Mr Attachments-Are-Weakness Holmes?” Sherlock gave a feral grin.

“While I was analysing her cardigan, of course!”

“Oh, for the love of – ! You know what I mean, Sherlock! Love is a bit more complicated than a matching of personality traits. Also, you’re hardly the world’s expert on human interaction. But I can tell you, there was definitely no spark between them yesterday. Not even the hint of interest.”

“As always, John, you see but do not observe. While I grant I’m no good at actually _feeling_ emotion, I do recognise the signs. Also, I’d like to point out, I _am_ the world’s expert on my brother.”

“So what did I not observe?”

“Ms Foster is familiar not only with you and me, but with my brother. I suspect Moriarty had her researching each of us under the auspices of a historical book about my family, or some such drivel. She knew Mycroft by reputation, as evidenced by her suddenly nervous demeanour when I announced his presence. That didn’t stop a slight dilation of the pupils when she saw him, though, indicating that on some basic level she finds my brother at least physically attractive.” He paused briefly to make sure John was keeping up. “On to her character: she suffers some form of nervous disposition which renders her uncomfortable in the company of others, yet she felt the need to come to our ‘lair’ so to speak, to present information that may be important to us. She could have simply deleted the files and disappeared entirely from notice without anyone the wiser, but chose not to.  
Why? Possibly a sense of moral duty. Unimportant, because what is important is that she’s smart enough to know that in doing this she would be subjected to close scrutiny due to her connection with an arch-criminal. Also knowing who my brother is, and the power he exerts, this would mean the scrutiny and possible mistrust of the government. And yet _she came here anyway_.  
Add the fact that she made the effort to look presentable and professional, despite currently being unemployed and – by the state of her physique – most likely running out of money.  
Conclusion? Despite being introverted to the point of antisocial, she has the strength of character to subject herself to the attention of strangers, has the self-awareness to present herself politely and professionally, and – probably most importantly – finds my brother attractive, despite knowing who and what he is.” John blinked repeatedly, processed the onslaught of information.

“OK. I can sort of see what you’re saying – but speaking as ‘us ordinary humans’, I think you might be reaching there.”

“Well, I did neglect to mention that she looked at _him_ , and not me, while writing down her number. She didn’t glance at you, either, even though you would have been the more logical, ‘normal’ choice of the three of us.” He met John’s expression of long-suffering apathy with an apologetic shrug. “And finally, I can say for certain that, having found Mycroft physically attractive, she is most certainly heterosexual. She’s also currently unattached.” He drew a breath to speak, then closed his mouth again, before finally abashedly muttering “Also, I have a…a ghsjefaelin.”  
  
“I’m sorry, a what?” John leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“A gut feeling. I have a gut feeling John! The hindbrain does have its uses every now and then, you know.” He shot a slightly wounded look at the guffaw which erupted from his friend’s throat.  
  
“Ha! The great Logician Sherlock Holmes had a gut feeling! Oh this is fantastic!” taking pity on his beleaguered friend, he toned down his hilarity. “So now that we have the slimmest thread of a possibility of interest on her side…I’m still not seeing any signs from your brother. He basically ignored her in zero seconds flat. So please do explain, Mr Genius!”

“The fact that he – despite knowing that I am married to my work, and even if I weren’t, I’d be more interested in pursuing…” he cleared his throat “Even knowing this, he felt the need to comment on my antics in obtaining the lady’s number. And when I confronted him with the possibility of his own interest, he over-reacted. He could have just laughed it off, and called me stupid – “

“Well he did call you absurd.”

“Not the same thing. At least, not in _his_ lexicon. But, then, as I said: I am the expert on my brother, so I don’t expect you to notice that particular marker.”

“Fine. So there’s the echo of a glimmer of a spark, there. And how do you propose to bring them together? Relationships do require a certain amount of actual interaction, you know. Talking, looking, touchi- that sort of thing.“ John cleared his throat uncomfortably. The idea of Mycroft being physically intimate with _anyone_ was a bit too bizarre for him to stomach. “What’s your plan?”

Sherlock grinned.

“We wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not in the know: the act of making tea by dumping all the ingredients into a cup at the same time is basically heresy in the tea-making world. It takes supreme apathy for a Brit not to at least make tea properly.


End file.
